


Crimson Thread

by CinnamonrollStark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexuality, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Character, Lawyers, M/M, Multi, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Loss, Protective Bucky Barnes, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Thriller, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 16:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20410972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonrollStark/pseuds/CinnamonrollStark
Summary: It's been a year since Steve left for the past, and Bucky still isn't doing well.It's when he views a tragedy that his life flips upside down, and he realizes that as he unravels a mystery, he needs to fight for justice for those who have no other opportunity to seek it.Of course, Sam thinks it's a bit odd that he's decided to become a defense lawyer- but anything that can aid in his recovery must be good, right?





	Crimson Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody!!! So I know I usually write Irondad and Tony stuff, and I'm totally nervous to post this, but i also most definitely love my sweet puppy Bucky and had to write this. It will be a multi chapter, a long one actually.  
TW as it deals with graphic depictions of violence, suicide, trauma, and anxiety/panic disorders. To me this is all very real and all the mental health stuff Bucky experiences in this chapter is part of my day to day life.
> 
> That said? I'm doing great. My school is hella cool- all three iron man movies were filmed there! And will smith frequents the campus for a show he's filming. Plus I got to briefly see Angela Basset the other day, which was pretty cool. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this!

It's the chill of morning air that wakes him. Damn heater keeps giving out right at the worst times. James always assumed Los Angeles would be sweltering, and while it surely rises far beyond the chills of Brooklyn, mid-December, he regularly wakes up shivering. He watches, fatigued, as his slow and practiced breaths send forward puffs of white, clouds drifting from beyond his lips and catching dust and dead skin in the blinding light peering through the window. Bucky studies this, for some time, and has made it a habit as of late: a few moments, each morning, devoted to simply existing. And just as it always must, the moments pass.

It's quiet, this time of day. Come two hours from now, the world will be bustling, city-dwellers scrambling to make appointments, employees straining to keep steady jobs, students yearning to sleep but devoted to knowledge. Car horns will blast and sirens will wail. Dogs will bark as children shout and parents will curse and mutter under there breath. Most people can separate the spaces in between, can block out the white noise as if is nothing. Bucky has never been so lucky. He can feel each word, each horn, each siren peircing his skin like faulty acupuncture. When it gets to that time of day, the one that fluctuates as things calm, and rises slowly work and school let out, Bucky can no longer bask in the silence of his own thoughts. Is this a gift, he wonders? Or a curse?

Bucky rubs his eyes free of last nights sleep, brushing back the tendrils of oily brown hair from his scalp. The cut is shorter now, some kind of undercut or something. The hairdresser explained it best. Around his ears, the hair fades. It's stylish, of course, but he hasn't washed it since. It's been a week. This is not the longest time he's gone without a shower. He tips over on his back and stares at the ceiling, brown boards angled upwards, a slatted roof.

His right hand slips over the curvatures of his body, grazing softly against the skin of his chest and resting, finally, in the pit of muscle, bone, and skin that used to house his left arm. It's sore, today, always is. He rubs the indenture gently with his thumb and rolls what was once the shoulder. 

It's moments like these, so silent and serene, covered by a chilled blanket of air, that Bucky wonders if he should pray. Not because he is obligated to, but because he feels so desperately alone. Still, he has no guidance as to who he must pray to- God? What God? What myth, what truth? Or in opposition, what absolute reality? Some long lost loved one, far beyond him now in death or otherwise departed. The question of who would even want to listen, or furthermore interpret the information given, is what keeps him from doing so. He nods to no one, an amen to no diety and begins his morning activities.

Times have changed Barnes's caffeine intake. While his youngest version of himself took far more kindly to the bitter, thick taste of black coffee, he cannot stomach it now. Without a heap of sugar and hazelnut cream, coffee is meaningless and disgusting. He's careful to pour just the right amount- this is one of his few pleasures in life, afterall.

Bucky takes in the view of the apartment from the kitchen. Not a bad one, really, despite some amenities failing quite often. A city scope from a wide window, a studio apartment, but it's big enough for him. The window rests from floor to ceiling, drapes opened wide to reveal a growing sun, morning rearing her head against the backdrop of glistening buildings and palm trees.

For a moment, Bucky smiles. It's rare. He doesn't tend to feel happiness grace him naturally, and most often he puts on a mask of enjoyment for others. But, in silence, he is alone, accompanied only by the steaming coffee in the freezing apartment, December sunrise sending rivulets of gold across the reflective surfaces of the city.

It is this pristine moment that, three floors above Bucky Barnes's apartment, thirteen stories high above the concrete hills of city life, that seventeen-year-old bisexual college student Damien Walsh propels off the ledge of his apartment window, and falls to a horrific and sudden death on the asphalt below.

◇◇◇

"It's been two weeks, now. Have things been easier, around your apartment?"

Dr. Mellisa Chang's face is quite wrinkled, lips curled and tucked at the edges like a poorly sewn silk doll. Bucky scratches at the stubble around his jaw and unconsciously clenches the muscles in his neck and checks. Dr. Chang seems to pick up on this, a slight change in expression registering tension. 

In truth, he's unsure. If by easier, she implies that it has ever been somewhat easy, Chang is off course. But he settles on a space in between.

"I don't like looking out the window." He purses his lips. "I can go in the kitchen if the drapes are shut." 

Which isn't entirely true, either. Although the drapes are somewhat helpful, there are cross hatchings, miniature spaces in which most eyes could not find the light- but in the prying mind of James Barnes, there is always a way through. In those spaces he finds the show, constantly on and replaying the same scene: a wicked dance of a bird without wings, toppling slowly and quickly all at once until it lands with a crack, yolks spilling, running red in the cracks of the parking lot. But he would rather give her a simple answer.

Of course, it is never simple with Dr. Chang. 

"You know," she says, repositioning one leg atop the other, "you're allowed to talk about whatever you need to, James. This is your time. I only want to be of assistance to make it worth the while."

He knows what this means. For the past few months, he's neglected to tell her the little things that weigh him down, a million tiny needles of hurtful truths he must live with. He just doesn't see the need in passing the pain along. She's right, too, as it is only his money and time that he is wasting. Bucky drums his fingers alongside the armrest of the pleather couch and bites the inner corner of his cheek. It's a habit he's picked up lately, of nervousness and anxiety. If he were to pull back the skin of his lips he'd reveal long, jagged broken scars, not yet healed, from when the biting gets too ritualistic. He peels at a loose hangnail at his thumb.

"I know," he smiles, kindly. "And you are helping." It's a lie, and she knows it, but as he let's the two of them rest in silence for the remaining half hour, they merely smile and sit. He wonders how it got this way, from 1940's Brooklyn to here. To this pristine office with wall to wall bookshelves, a smiling, asian doctor, that's a woman, in a place where it isn't seen as strange or effeminate to seek help. It is absolutely wonderful. It is a shock to the system.

How he wishes he could find joy in it.

When the session ends, she wishes him well and reminds him of his next session. The elevators in the lobby take far too long to reach him, and he sings some random, poppy tune from recent years within the confines of his mind. The doors shudder open, eventually, and he piles in along with a dozen or so others. It's hot, sticky in the cramped space, and the tune gets louder in his head. He wonders if they can hear it too. How they can keep up conversations, laughing and chatting about meaningless things, all the while, the constant drone of random thought and mental music, it is entirely beyond him. By the end of the ride, Bucky's heart is pounding against the fabric of his blue henley.

He has to rush to the bathroom afterwards, the family stall, where there is privacy. He runs his hands through his hair and bends over, trying to rid himself of the toxic build up of anxiety in his stomach in chest. The only way, he's learned, is to scream, but this is probably not the best option in a crowded place. Instead, he holds his breath and forces his diaphragm up, a bottled shriek of pain that releases some of the tension. His abdomen relaxes and he finds his face in the mirror, blotchy and red from the heat. His breath comes in puffs, and between each exhale, he watches the broken dance of the flightless bird, the boy with no wings and no song, simply toppling against wind until he breaks against the hard ground. Every inhale is punctuated with the thud of his landing, the snapping and crunching of skull and neck.

Part of him wonders who the bird was, and why he chose to fall. A flinching glance at the fresh corpse had proved little to nothing, a shadow of a young boy, posed awkwardly as if he were about to chane across the pavement, drawing spirals of blood as it seeped from the soles of his feet. 

One last graceful leap into the beyond. Not so lovely now, covered in crimson, displayed for the whole world to see.

Yet, such curiosity almost never leads to any reasonably good discovery- and more often than not, the cause behind the effect helps no one and changes no one. 

This is just one thread, one last case to close. Bucky so longs for closure, but it is not his, now, to seek. 

◇◇◇

Although he isn't sure what compels him to open the door, he does. It is an itch in need of scratching, a pain he must relieve. To his surprise, there is no longer any crime scene tape, no note on the door- and even stranger, it is unlocked. Bucky's right hand clutches the cool metal and twists the knob until it clicks open, eerily silent as the door slides open. Breathless, he takes in the absolute nothingness that he finds.

He knows it's an intrusion, to disturb this last place of life, but he cannot help himself. It is bordering on obsession, a rise in intrusive thoughts pushing home further and further inside. A conspiracy swirls in his head and he struggles to keep it under lock and key. Shakily his hand finds the lights witch and flicks it on, shrouding the room in yellow.

Where, at first, the room pleads its case as unremarkable, lit up by the overhead light, the space is bright and lively, betraying at the very least, an averagely happy life. A twin bed with maroon sheets, dark blue pillows. A stuffed animal. As Bucky walks in, his fingers graze thr blankets and the teddy, and he swallows. This kid was truly that; a child. When his eyes rise to meet the window, he is greeted by an unexpected guest.

"It's pretty nice, right?"

Bucky jumps, just slightly. He's used to ghosts of the past. But this is no past version of the boy- he is exactly as he saw him two weeks ago, painted with blood and brain matter. Damien sits casually against the windowsill, which thankfully, is closed now. 

"Better than most dorm rooms. Look at all those pictures."

And even though he's unsure why, Bucky follows the instruction. The wall behind the bed is plastered with photos of the boy, at varying ages in different outfits, costumes. I'm one halloween photo, Damien is dressed in wizard garb. Bucky turns back and he's wearing it.

"It's not form fitted, but cute, right?" He smiles, no longer bloodied and post-mortem. "If you want I can get into something fancier. Or just," he changes in the blink of an eye, resuming his former apparel and death stance, "how you know me. Whatever makes you the most comfortable."

He stands, then, pattering his way over to the small bookshelf on the wall. He eyes the books and smiles, slightly. "Doesn't look like the room of a suicidal kid."

Bucky shrugs, confused as to why he is going along with this illusion. In some odd way its comforting.

"Nothing does."

Damien meets his eyes.

"I suppose that's true. But aren't you curious? You know what, don't answer that. You're peering around some dead kid's apartment. Of course you're curious."

Bucky plays along.

"Curious about what?"

"About why," answers Damien, softly. "Why I did it. Why you shouldn't."

Broken bird, falling down. It could be so easy. Damien is right. There is much he needs to know.

This is how it begins.

The thread, peeking out behind woven fabric. _Pull away_, whispers the voice in Bucky's mind. And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> So!!! What did you think?????


End file.
